The Baby Came C.O.D. Part 1

THE BABY CAME C.O.D.

by Marie Rydzynski-Ferrarella.

Evan Quartermain on the art of being a twin.

Sometimes I wonder if my twin brother and I are even related. I've always been "the responsible one," the one with clear-cut goals and plans for my future-Devin was the one who used to get into trouble. But now I'm the one in a mess. An anonymous woman left a baby on my desk-a baby that I'm sure isn't mine! Now I have to rely on Devin to find her. Maybe he can also give me some advice on how to handle my next-door neighbor, Claire Walker. She's been so good with baby Rachel, but I'm beginning to wish she'd share some of that TLC with me....

Claire Walker on the art of being a twin.

I think Evan is lucky-at least he knows who his brother is. My twin and I were separated at birth; in fact, until recently, I didn't even know she existed. And finding her now may be close to impossible. Growing up, I would have loved to have a sister. I can understand why my daughter, Libby, is becoming so attached to Evan's new charge. To tell the truth, I've gotten a little attached to her myself...not to mention her gorgeous and stubborn daddy, if that's who he is....

Chapter One.

"Mr. Quartermain, a lady just dropped off something she said you would know what to do with better than she does."

Evan Quartermain barely glanced up from the monthly status report he was reading. It was an unsatisfactorily written monthly status report, and he meant to chew out the person responsible at the earliest opportunity. He had no time for any games initiated by mysterious women uttering coded messages. Time was something that was in increas-ingly shorter supply these days.

Why Alma thought the message warranted an appearance from her rather than the usual buzz on the intercom was beyond Evan. He waved a hand in vague dismissal as he circled a particularly daunting and most likely unsubstantiated figure on the spreadsheet that was included with the report. He knew for a fact the statement was incorrect. Didn't people take pride in their work anymore?

"Just leave it on your desk," he instructed. "I'll get to it eventually, time permitting."

Alma had been his secretary for the past four years; Evan had taken her with him as he received each new promotion at what others saw as breathtaking speed. They both knew that time permitted very little for him, other than more work.

She glanced back toward her desk to make sure that what she had left there was secure. "I'm afraid I can't do that."

He sighed, annoyed at being disturbed over what was probably nothing. Keeping a neat desk was an obsession of Alma's. She undoubtedly thought an extra sheet or two left out of place would upset the delicate balance of things. While it was an a.s.set to have such an organized employee, at times he had to admit that it was also a royal pain.

Evan frowned as he circled another figure, pressing progressively harder on his pencil as he went further and further into the report. "Then file it."

"I really can't do that."

Her tone had him looking in her direction. His unflappable secretary looked extremely fidgety, and it prodded his curiosity. He never remembered her being difficult.

"And why is that?"

In her own fas.h.i.+on, Alma was very protective of her boss. She went out of her way to spare him any unnecessary annoyances during the course of the day. But there was absolutely no way to s.h.i.+eld him from this.

"Because it's a baby."

The pages of the report went fanning through his fingers, settling back down on the desk like so many colored leaves. He had to have heard wrong. "You're joking."

Her thin shoulderblades straightened so far back, they appeared to be touching. "I never joke, sir." With that, she turned on her heel and walked out, leaving the door to his inner office standing open.

But she had gotten his full attention with her announcement. Evan was still staring at the doorway, mystified.

"Then I don't-"

Alma reentered, carrying a baby seat, complete with baby, in her arms.

"-understand..."

Evan's voice trailed off. He didn't remember getting up or rounding the desk, but he must have, because he found himself looking down into the baby's face in utter disbelief. The child was gurgling, and there was a series of interconnecting bubbles going down its chin.

He didn't need this today. Evan raised incredulous eyes to Alma's face. "Whose is this?"

Alma's face was a blank slate as she looked at him. If she had an opinion regarding the matter, it was hers alone and not for sharing.

"Yours, apparently. The note was open." She pointed at the piece of paper that was pinned to the baby's s.h.i.+rt It was to Evan's credit that his mouth didn't drop open. There was a note, an actual note pinned to the baby's s.h.i.+rt This was like something out of one of those B movies from the forties that his brother loved so much. Worse than that, it was surreal.

"I don't have any children," Evan protested.

And he didn't intend to have any. Despite the fact that he came from a fairly large family by present-day standards, the thought of having tiny miniatures of himself and some future wife milling about the house held absolutely no appeal for him. Children were a breed apart, and he didn't begin to flatter himself that he understood anything about that mysterious world. He was a man who knew his strengths and his limitations. Children were part of the latter.

This had to be someone's poor idea of a practical joke, and he couldn't begin to describe his annoyance.

"You do now," Alma said, bringing him back to the present.

The hint of an actual smile on Alma's face testified to the fact that she had always felt Evan Quartermain, latest, as well as youngest, CEO of Donovan Digital Incorporated, couldn't possibly be as completely work oriented as he had led everyone to believe.

Evan didn't care for this breach of loyalty on Alma's part. She above all people should know that if he said something, it was true. Lies and pretenses had no place in his world.

The baby squealed, and Evan's eyes darted back to the round, messy face.

"There's no way," he whispered.

And then, for the first time in Alma's recollection, Evan Quartermain faltered.

"I mean, there's a way, but..." He looked both annoyed and in shock.

Collecting himself, Evan tried to approach the problem logically, as if it were merely another project to be conquered at work and not something with far more devastating consequences. "The woman who brought the baby, what did she look like?"

Like a typical mystery woman, Alma thought. She recited what little there was. "Tall, thin, sungla.s.ses and a scarf." Pointy shoulders rose and fell. "She was in and out before I could stop her."

Evan sighed, running his hand through his dark hair. For whatever reason it was happening, it still had to be a mistake, a gross, ridiculously annoying mistake. There was just no possible way he could be responsible for this gurgling bit of humanity.

Her arms were beginning to ache. Since Evan was making no effort to take the child from her, Alma rested the baby seat on his desk.

"Maybe the note might give you a hint," she suggested. Then, when he didn't remove the paper from the baby's s.h.i.+rt, Alma opened the large safety pin and took it off herself. She handed the note to Evan.

Like someone trapped within a bad dream that refused to end no matter how hard he tried to wake himself up, Evan looked down at the note. It was addressed to him, all right.

Evan, it took me a long time to find you-otherwise, I would have brought your daughter to you sooner. I've given this six months, but it's just not working out for either of us. You can give Rachel a much better life than I can.

He turned the note over, but there was nothing on the back. No signature, no name, no indication whom the note had come from.

"That's it?" he asked incredulously. He looked at Alma, waiting. There had to be more. "She didn't say anything?"

Alma shook her head. "Just what I said. She wanted me to give you the baby."

There had to be something Alma was forgetting, some minute clue that she didn't realize she had. It was something his brother had told him once. People were always giving away clues about themselves; you just had to listen. Up until this moment, Evan had thought Devin was pontificating from some old Agatha Christie novel, but now he fervently hoped his brother was right. "Her words," he prodded, "her exact words, Alma." Since it had happened less than five minutes ago, recalling wasn't a challenge. "'Tell Mr. Quartermain that he'll know what to do with this better than I do,'" Alma recited.

From the frozen, horrified expression on his face, Alma figured that the woman had seriously overestimated Evan's capabilities.

"But I don't know what to do with a baby," he protested.

Evan circled his desk slowly, as if searching for some infinitesimal escape route hidden to the naked eye. And then, slowly, he looked up at Alma, making a last-ditch attempt to reroute the problem, at least temporarily.

"Alma, you're a woman-"

Alma raised her hands. "Stop right there. That fact doesn't necessarily qualify me for anything more than you."

He refused to believe that. "But you must have some sort of maternal instincts-"

"No, I don't. George and I didn't have kids for a reason."

There were more bubbles flowing from the baby's mouth, and she was cooing. Alma reached for a tissue, but rather than wipe the tiny mouth, she handed the tissue to Evan, who took it reluctantly. He dabbed at Rachel's mouth as if it were a stain on the carpet.

Alma frowned at the baby. Her presence was obviously upsetting her boss, and he had work to do.

"Under the circ.u.mstances, Mr. Quartermain," she said, already edging her way to the door, "I think your best bet here is family services. Would you like me to get them on the line for you?"

It was a rhetorical question, one Alma was certain her boss would jump at. He didn't disappoint her.

"Yes."

Evan looked down at the baby. Rachel. He rolled the name over in his mind, but it meant nothing to him, nudged no memories to the surface.

That was because she wasn't his, he told himself.

Rachel smiled at him, waving her hands excitedly as she made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. Probably at his expense. Her eyes were green, a deep, seawater green.

Like his were.

What if...?

"No," Evan said suddenly, looking up toward Alma.

The secretary stopped in the doorway, looking at him with a mixture of surprise and expectation. But she made no further move to her telephone.

Evan tried to think, although for the first time in his life, it was difficult. If he called a government agency into this, there was no telling how much red tape he was going to find himself in. And if, by some strange whimsy of fate, the child did turn out to be his, it would take him forever before he could reclaim her again.

Besides, there was his reputation to think of. He wanted to keep this as quiet as possible.

"Hold off on that," he told her.

"I think you're making a mistake, Mr. Quartermain," she warned.

"Maybe."

Evan tried to put together the scattered pieces in his head into something that made sense. He had a major meeting scheduled for three with Donovan, the president of the company, and several representatives from a j.a.panese- based firm. That gave him almost four hours to try to get his life into some kind of order.

Like an Olympic lifter psyching himself up to hoist a record-breaking weight, Evan drew in a long breath before picking up the baby's seat. The baby screeched and laughed. He looked, he thought, catching his reflection in the window, like a man attempting to carry a bomb without having it go off.

In a way, he supposed that the comparison was not without merit.

"Alma," he began as he pa.s.sed her, "I'll be out of the office for a while."

Alma moved farther back, giving him all the room he needed and more. "Are you going to be back in time for your meeting?"

He raised an eyebrow as he spared her a look. "Have I ever missed one yet?"

When she pressed her lips, they disappeared altogether. Her eyes never left the baby. Everything in her body language fairly shouted, Better you than me. "No, but you've never had one of those dropped off in the office, either."

"Not a word of this, Alma," he warned sternly. "To anyone. If there's even so much as a hint, I'll know where it came from."

He didn't have to tell her twice. "Understood. What should I say if someone comes looking for you?" she called after him.

He didn't have time to come up with a plausible excuse. There was too much else on his mind. "Make something up. As long as it's not as bizarre as this."

Her small, dry laugh followed him all the way to the elevator. "I'm not that creative."

Neither was he, he thought, looking down into the child's face. Neither was he. Rachel just couldn't be his.

He refused to believe it. He didn't want children, but if he were to have a child, it would be conceived in love, not in error. And he'd never been in love, not even once. He'd wanted to, tried to, but the magic that his brother Devin always talked about had never happened for him.

But then, during their teen years, his twin had fallen in and out of love enough for both of them.

And he didn't have one of these, Evan thought sarcastically as he looked down at the child in his arms.

There was just no way she was his.

His head in a fog, his thoughts refusing to form any rational, coherent ideas, Evan really wasn't sure just how he managed to arrive home in one piece. The only thing he did remember clearly was getting behind the wheel and taking off, then stopping abruptly when he realized that he hadn't strapped the baby seat in properly.

Or at all.

Pulling over to the curb, he fixed that as best he could, fumbling with straps in his blazing red sports car that were never meant to restrain a female small enough to ride in a car seat.

The rest of the drive through the streets of San Francisco was an emotional blur, a rare thing for a man who did not consider himself to be the least bit emotional to begin with. He barely registered the sound of the child wailing beside him.

Over and over again, he kept telling himself that the baby couldn't possibly be his. The number of times he'd been intimate with a woman in the past-what, year and a half?-could be counted on the fingers of one hand. And the number of women he'd been involved with was even less than that. That narrowed down the possible candidates for motherhood, and none of them had had jet-black hair.